by C. J. Aaron
Helpless to move, Ryl was forced to follow the mender with only his eyes. The older man thumbed through a set of papers in his hand, made a cursory visual inspection of Ryl, more akin to looking over a slab of hanging meat at the butcher, then turned and made his way over to the small work table.
Moving to the small fireplace, the mender donned a set of thick gloves that were hanging from a hook on the wall. Grabbing the wooden handles of the poles sunk into the coals, the old man removed them, sending a shower of sparks up the flue and scattering stray embers on the stone floor.
At the end of each pole, now glowing red from its rest in the coals was a brand. Ryl could see the air distort from the heat radiating off the superheated metal. As if reading his mind, the unyielding hands of his guards pressed against his arms and chest.
Ryl couldn’t scream.
He couldn’t move.
He was alone.
Hopeless.
Defeated, he closed his eyes momentarily damming up the torrent of flowing tears, gave up his garbled attempts at screaming, and let his body go limp.
“That’s it, lad,” the old man breathed. “Lie still. This will hurt.”
2
Ryl splashed a handful of the refreshingly chilled water from the stream that ran behind Thayers Rest on his face. The miniscule offshoot of the main river ran directly behind the tiny farming community he now called his seasonal home. Somehow thoughts of the past made the brands on his skin burn as if they were freshly applied. He left his hands on his neck covering the abhorrent scars allowing the coolness from the water to act as a salve, dulling the fire that raged across his skin.
As the burning subsided, he scrubbed the dust and grime from a long day’s labor off his face and arms, drying his hands on his trousers. Stooping down again to fill his empty water skin, he started walking back toward the boarding house to gather his meager belongings. Having finished his current task tending the small plot of potatoes, he chose to forgo spending another night at the small camp to return to Cadsae to be there for the somber welcome of The Stocks’ newest tribute. Ryl always endeavored to be there the day a new tribute was delivered to The Stocks although, of late, he had been absent from a greater number.
The small boarding house at Thayers Rest was nothing more than a hastily constructed common room. A starved kitchen sat at the rear of the building. Its poorly stocked pantry and a shaky wooden table were surrounded by a selection of mismatched, handmade chairs and tree stumps for seats. A small fireplace occupied the center of the room, open to all sides, serving as both a cooking area and for heat during the colder seasons. A half-dozen pallets, each with a narrow chest, lined the southern wall.
None of the building’s four other temporary occupants had returned yet from their assigned tasks. In silence, Ryl collected his belongings, amounting to nothing more than a few changes of clothes stuffed into a small canvas pack, slung it over his shoulder, and exited the building, heading toward the road.
Unlike the small, seasonal farming villages, to Ryl's knowledge the road had never been named. Running in a primarily north-south direction, the road sat on the western edge of the unnamed river that bisected The Stocks, similarly following its lazy bends. Emerging from the end of the Haven Mountains alongside the colossal statue of Taben the Defender, the river ran the length of The Stocks to where it merged with the sea. Three rickety bridges spanned the narrows, granting access to the fields on either side. A fourth followed the road near the southern end of The Stocks as it turned eastward toward the village of Cadsae.
Ryl picked up his pace once his feet hit the hard-packed dirt road. Thayers Rest was the closest community lodge to Cadsae, but at a little over ten miles away, still a considerable distance given the hour. The sun had already begun its descent toward the western palisade, the seventy-five foot wall that bordered both sides of The Stocks. He had to hurry before darkness was upon him. The Stocks were not a safe place to be caught out at night. There were no predatory animals large enough to harm a human. However, a tribute’s travel at night was prohibited, so the patrolling guards were to be feared.
The east and west palisades ran the length of The Stocks, penning in the sides of an area that spanned roughly fifty miles north and south, by fifteen miles east and west. The land contained inside formed a mild valley, the barely noticeable slopes met in secret, hidden by the waters of the river flowing above. Both sides of the palisades could be seen from virtually all points inside The Stocks, creating a smothering feeling. There were days that Ryl felt the walls were slowly closing in on him, akin to being stuck in between two jaws of a closing vise.
The palisades were topped with small guard towers staggered roughly every few miles, serving as waypoints for the continuously patrolling guards. Every ten miles, more sizeable fortifications housed the off duty patrols. Signal fires topped each tower bordering The Stocks, serving as emergency beacons should the need arise.
The guard force served dual purposes. The first being to ensure the tributes remained inside. Open rebellion from the tributes was more than unlikely; only numbering in the hundreds, they could, at best, mount an irrelevant threat to the trained soldiers, being untrained and outnumbered more than ten to one. Having lost hope, most of the tributes were more of a danger to themselves than the ever-present guards. The secondary purpose of the guards was to protect the tributes from the outside world. The compound within their blood, and the elixir to which it was the vital ingredient represented a coveted resource.
To the north, The Stocks were capped by the near vertical front of the Haven Mountains, and to the south by the southern palisades. The southern border was home to the heavily-fortified and only means of entrance into The Stocks. Set off the eastern tip where the east and south palisades met, the Pining Gate, separated The Stocks from the rest of the free city of Cadsae Proper and the world.
A few miles to the west of the gate, forming the center of the south palisade, the river flowed through a massive metal grate that extended up from the silty river bottom nearly fifteen feet to the top of the arched exit. The massive metal grate, molded by reclusive Ferro blacksmiths that made their home on the Isle of Mattume, was infused with a discreet property that prevented it from corroding in the harsh brackish waters. The nature of its infusion was a closely guarded secret. The crisscrossing bars left only narrow gaps, allowing for the passage of water and small fish.
There was no escaping The Stocks. Once a tribute entered, only death or the Harvest would grant them reprieve.
Ryl absently kicked a rock, sending it careening into the slow moving waters of the river. With few exceptions, The Stocks was composed of field after field of crops. A markedly fertile tract of land, gently rolling hills of wheat swayed in the breeze. Fields of corn, potatoes, barley, squash, beans and more dotted the landscape within.
Having been felled during the construction of the palisades, trees were sparse, save for the orchard, the sporadic copses staggered between with the fields and the Erlyn Woods. Extending outward from the craggy base of the Haven Mountains, the Erlyn Woods represented the only real forest within the borders of The Stocks.
As he jogged, Ryl thought of the newest tribute, sending a shiver through his body, goosebumps covering his arms. For eight cycles, he had witnessed this same tragedy unfold time and time again, so many that Ryl had lost count.
Another terror-stricken, broken child, fresh brands still weeping through their soiled bandages.
Another horror story.
Another sacrifice.
Although there were essentially only two stories of how a tribute was sentenced to The Stocks, they both started with the same thing.
Cursed blood.
Blood of the ancients.
One was either willingly sold by their family or they were taken by force. The former, one day arriving at the revolting realization that their family had chosen gold over their own offspring, or the latter, surviving for hours or weeks as a fugitive before being hunted down,
families slaughtered before their eyes.
The unwelcomed, agonizing memories returned once more.
3
Ryl held his father’s hand as they navigated their way through the midday bustle of crowded square. The market square in Pernell was host to a myriad of exotic and fanciful objects, foreign to the young boy. Vibrantly colored clothes from across the Sea of Prosper to the south. Aromatic spices from the city of Tamihda, that bordered the Maolia Desert far to the east. Swords and armor polished to a mirrored shine. Beautifully handcrafted jewelry, covered with dazzling jewels that sparkled in the sunlight. The sights, sounds and smells assaulted his senses imparting him with a euphoric glee.
Ryl loved traveling to the market with his father. The activity in the square was a far cry from the sleepy general store in his hometown.
“Can we look at the swords today, Father?” Ryl pleaded as they made their way past an especially boisterous crier.
“Not today, Ryl,” his father said. “We have to visit the mender’s.”
“But I’m not sick,” Ryl whined. “I’ve never been sick.”
“Aye, that you haven’t, Son. This is just for a quick check. All children your age must have it,” his father added.
Leaving the throng of people and the busy market square, Ryl and his father made their way onto a small cobblestone street. Small shops displayed their wares in modest windows for the passersby to see.
“Will it hurt, Father?” Ryl questioned.
As with most children, the notion of pain was unnerving. Ryl could honestly say that in his eight short cycles of life, he had never experienced any true physical pain. The closest he could recollect had come from a fall from a tree on the border of farmer Barkham’s property. His terrified parents had rushed to his aid, expecting to find the broken body of their son. But Ryl had bounded to his feet, dusting himself off all the while looking confused at the distraught attention. He was thankful for his good fortune that he had landed just right not to sustain serious injuries. Sure, he had been sore for several days, but the bruises dissipated to nothing more than a memory in under a week.
“It’ll just be a small scrape, just enough for a few drops of blood,” his father said. Ryl was oblivious to look of fear sneaking into his eyes.
By rule of the Ascertaining Decree, every child upon reaching the age of eight must be subjected to an alexen screening by an official of the Royal Menders. The fate of the child and the family hung in the balance pending the results of the seemingly innocuous test. With a nearly unerring certainty, the test indicated any presence of alexen within the blood, the definitive marker of the blood of the ancients. Even trace amounts of alexen would seal the fate of the child. By law, the child would become the rightful property of the Kingdom of Damaris.
The specifics of the test were known to only a select few and held in the strictest of confidence. The details known to the general public were that a small sample of blood was taken from the child, milked from a small incision made in the tip of their finger. In private, the sample underwent a barrage of testing, the outcome being known within a short amount of time, determining the presence of lack thereof of alexen. If no alexen, or blood of the ancients, was noted, the parents would be presented with a writ of absolution, clearing their child from further inspection.
The writ of absolution bore the official seal of Royal Mender who’d performed the testing as well as that of the local magistrate, both signatures certifying and guaranteeing the accuracy of the results. Having an official writ was invaluable, as anyone could be stopped at any time and detained until their writ of absolution was verified. Failure to produce a writ was costly. The offending party faced mandatory quarantine and hefty fines.
The grounds for questioning were left to the discretion of the guards and authorities. The liberal interpretation frequently resulted in the detention of entire families, questioned due to the jealous insinuations of neighbors. Amongst the higher echelons of society, the questioning was routine. Nobles and politicians were frequently subjected to such scrutiny after allegations from rivals seeking a marginally higher standing.
Having a writ of absolution was a blessing, lifting the weight of doubt from tired shoulders. Writ in hand, one was free to pursue their life in blissful ignorance of the tragic fate of an immaterial few. If even a trace amount of the blood of the ancients was discovered, the results would be carried to the Deliverance, a meeting held once every other moon in the capital city of Leremont.
This rendezvous was a conglomeration of the highest echelons of society in the kingdom. An invitation to attend the Deliverance was among the highest of honors one could receive in all of Damaris, for the gift of long life that it represented was not a thing given lightly.
Here in the opulent, vaulted Hall of the King, the privileged few, or their authorized delegates would bid against their peers for the honor of sponsoring one of the children turned tributes. All humanity had been stripped away from what had been carefree children less than a few weeks or moons past. Now, they were reduced to nothing more than a list of black numbers and dates stained into a docket on off-white parchment. Age. Gender. Alexen count. Cycle for optimal Harvest.
Children, bid on by the noble, high and mighty of society like cattle to be harvested when the time was right.
Tributes.
The sponsorship of a tribute was a twofold process. The winning sponsor would be responsible for the payment of the bid to the kingdom. The bid was always a substantial sum, counting against the mounting cost of clothing, supplying and paying the living wages for the garrisons that maintained their permanent watch over tributes’ eventual home, The Stocks. The second step was the negotiation directly with the family of the tribute.
By law, once the blood of the ancients was discovered, the child was deemed the property of the kingdom. The Kingdom of Damaris, in turn, offered a compensation to remove the burden of the tribute from the family’s hands. These Deliverance negotiations, as they were called, were done directly through a representative of the winning bidder when the mender delivered the news to the family. Negotiations were made for the life of their child. A child with cursed blood.
The final sum in these negotiations could vary dramatically. The favor typically rested on the side of the sponsor, as the tribute would be taken by force if the Deliverance negotiations broke down. One way or another, the child's fate was sealed.
Would they make their voyage to The Stocks having been willingly sold by their family, or would they be taken by force? Families that chose to run, were hunted incessantly, and slaughtered mercilessly. Siblings of those poor souls, though they rarely survived, were sold into a life of permanent slavery.
Their sacrifices should be honored, not scorned.
Ryl remembered his testing. True to his father’s word, the test had been simple and fairly painless. The small incision in the tip of his pointer finger quickly relinquished its bounty in blood. With a handshake and a forced smile, Ryl and his father had left, making the uneventful journey from Pernell back to their meager homestead. His father was seemingly lost in thought, said but little. Ryl’s apprehension toward the test had been pacified through his father's calculated dishonesty about the true nature of the evaluation.
Miniscule details, not at all surprising at the time, were now glaringly obvious. Ryl had grown over the cycles, and so had his hatred for his parents. Determined not to let small inconsistencies and details go unnoticed or unchecked, Ryl had forced himself to become perceptive, studying the world around him with calculating eyes.
The life of a tribute forced one to mature well beyond their age. Gone were the carefree games of childhood, replaced by a life of unending labor in the fields. It was no surprise that in light of such hopelessness a considerable number of tributes had lost all zest for life, passing the days as husks of their former selves. Carrying on through the miniscule sliver of false hope that a change would come.
That a savior would come.
R
yl choked down a bitter laugh at the thought.
There would be no savior.
As hopeless as the position seemed, Ryl was not content to give up. Being but two cycles before his Harvest, he was among the eldest in The Stocks, and the younger tributes looked up to him as a younger sibling looks to their elder.
He had made better time than he had hoped, arriving at Cadsae just before curfew. The flickering lanterns of the village’s large shared residences already lit, standing out like beacons in the approaching dark. Set close to the corner of the east and south palisades, the village of Cadsae, had been built out from the large storehouse set to the side of the Pining Gate. While the village was the largest in The Stocks, it was nothing more than a collection of a dozen buildings, closely aligned in a haphazard order. The conglomeration of buildings in essence was nothing more than a penned in burrow of the larger port city, Cadsae Proper that lay to the other side of the massive palisades from whence it got its name. The palisades loomed over the confined village like a perpetual shadow. The knowledge that one was under constant watch added an oppressive feeling atop the hopelessness.
Closest to the warehouse, on the eastern side of the road, lay the village’s three, simple multi-story residences. Each set up identically and modeled after inns, capable of housing over one hundred tenants each. The first floor consisted of a large common room with tables and a sprawling hearth built into the far end. On the opposite side of the room from the hearth was the kitchen.
During the warmer times, the few tributes remaining in Cadsae would generally fend for themselves, surviving off their rations from the village store. Throughout the thankfully short cold season, tributes would be assigned duty in the kitchens as virtually all the tributes would winter in Cadsae, as tasks in the fields were sparse.
On the western side of the street, the rest of the village was set in a rough horseshoe shape around a small central meeting area. At one heel of the horseshoe, stood the combined Master’s House and clinic from where work orders were issued and the necessary weekly treatments were distributed. This was, by far, the nicest building in the entirety of The Stocks, standing out like a sore thumb in comparison to the drab buildings that surrounded it.
